Grey Matter

This is a blog for the words in my brain.

[greymatterwriting]

Ten minutes of chemical death. Is it possible to get a late check-out?

How morbid to yearn for such a break in a life so fleeting

[greymatterwriting]

[greymatterwriting]

I feel crowded by death Suffocated Immobilised Haunted

I’m only 26

[greymatterwriting]

Happiness

Shoes off Beautiful Drunk feelings Universal Yellow lights Train departs Complaints Beneath Yellow lights. Talk your feelings through Pure joys Smog Starlight buildings Laughter rings through Piss stained alleys Happiness I sought you so long So far In every nook and cranny In every hard to reach Place. Here. Here. I find you In smog and drunken fumes You danced through the words and the night Like the gas puff of the taxi Pass So simple Here. Here. In an old friend I find you Happiness.

[greymatterwriting]

Chief digital officer

Real estate

DL

Someone needs a grammar check

Someone needs validation

Someone needs something

Ding

Bing

Ding

In my head

My dreams

My sleep

Scratching of suffering

In my mind

The shower holds me

I scream

The bushland hears and stays silent

What can it do?

Ding

Ding

Unknown caller

My heart has found home in my throat

Like a termite it chews

Pumping blood through my head

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

My bed is draining my energy

I need to lie

It’s gone I.

[greymatterwriting]

No light

Turn the light off Turn the mind off Count the hours Until function time Turn the sound off Turn the sight off Lie in the blackness The darkness The death Hello? Is this how it is? Does the fly Sound like my fridge? The kingdom of light Assaulting numbers On an appliance clock? Hum Ring Buzz Sing Peace everlasting Never coming It all amounts to nothing. Fighting for our freedom To oppression A cage within a cage Within A cage Within a cage Dantes rings of hell Are full Of appliances Flat screen tvs iPhone In beezlebubs pocket Count the seconds Count the days This is why We count Count the minutes Count the breaths Imagine for a moment You're not here We are the child With all the toys And none of the friends They left us They were never Here. Small sentences Small words Keep it sharp Keep it clear No symbolism Here. Let the madness Sound the sense We're all poets in this life. We're all tortured Strung out Bleeding from our guts. We all hear The dooms day march We all lace Our shoes too tight. Left Right Left, right Left Sa-lute March on. Hands on our hollow Chests. Where did that sound Of connection Of life Go? Grope my breast It will be here Somewhere. Someone call it! It will be here Somewhere. I sold my soul For some advertising space Target audience: Gods embrace Hear the beat The computers sing A song Of loss and sorrow Hear the beat The monitors laugh A giggle Of no tomorrow. - K.B

[greymatterwriting]

Deaths dying love

Sometimes I wonder if death falls in love. Like us. Like humans. Does he see someone and become infatuated with their hair, their eyes, the way they walk, the way their body moves. Does he watch the way the light hits them at different angles and marvel at their beauty. Does he follow them invisibly, as invisible as a love struck teenager, and haunt their dreams and thoughts with images of him. In hope. Maybe they'll see him, maybe they'll recognize him, maybe they'll know him. Maybe they'll like him back and maybe. With the smallest, most fragile maybe, they will love him. It's a dangerous game loving death. It's a dangerous game wanting to be loved if you are death. Does it matter to him if his matter of affections is alive or dead? Does he only perhaps see their soul, the body just a temporary cacoon of transportation. Is he there, in the corner, watching, waiting, hoping, wishing one can see past the grief and morose nature of himself and see the man he is in his own right? Or does he haunt us with the power and strength of an unrequiented love so that we can love those we do all the more. So that he can see we are happy. That we love. And in some way are loved in return. Does he wait patiently for that mortal love to die with our bodies so our eternal love can forever be his? So he can nestle our souls to his cold, barren chest and whisper the words he has been screaming all along. I love you.

[greymatterwriting]

Fuck your fears

Fear is spreading It's infecting Suspicious People staring Mistrustful Deceitful Hateful Fear is spreading Killing Tightening Strangling Don't let it in Think instead of fear Consider Criticise Cynical Don't believe What they tell you Scared drones Are loyal drones Are dangerous drones Are killing drones Fear is fictional Think Write your own script

[greymatterwriting]

Invisible Cities

Two lovers blinded and embracing.  It terrifies me and excites me in a new way I've never known in this world of recurring new. I used to know that, yesterday. It flashes like a memory but like all things in Leonia, it is gone when the morning comes. I am left standing in my perfect kitchen of my perfect house of my perfect neighbourhood of my perfect city. I am left standing holding a perfectly white, perfectly smooth, perfectly new bowl. Its new and shiny. Perfect perfection. I commit the cardinal sin. I throw it to the ground. It breaks. Its broken. Its ruined. Its cleaned. I take another. New and shiny. I bang it to the bench. I feel it shudder. This soulless object of nothingness shudders. Yesterday. The word whispers through me chasing out the shudder. I grit my teeth. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth but I wash it away with the new and shiny. Suddenly the taste is smooth and soft and sweet and I want to taste it again. I bang the new and shiny harder. It cries. It cracks. Its imperfect. Imperfect perfection. Yesterday. The word rings in my ear, louder now. It reverberates around my skull, no melody, no rhythm, no tune, perfectly imperfect. Perfectly imperfect. Crack. Perfectly imperfect. Crack. Perfectly imperfect. Yesterday.

Everything is new and shiny. Perfectly perfect. So perfect it stings my eyes and burns my skin. I catch my reflection in the perfectly perfect shining glass. Perfectly perfect. Of course I am. I am Today. Yesterday echoes in my mind. I cant remember yesterday. I only remember myself. I only remember today. But the word echoes insistently around my mind like a name. I miss it. I miss this Yesterday. They say Leonia’s passion is the new and different but all these perfectly perfect bowls are the same. Nothing is different. I clutch my imperfectly perfect bowl to my chest, my recurrent impurity forever more. I walk through my new door and run down my new lawn searching for the Yesterday. I let my imperfect impurity guide me, it pulls me toward yesterday. A Yesterday. The Yesterday. I chase after the angels as they wind through the new streets and I follow them back to heaven, the walls of yesterday. My skin stops stinging and my eyes stop burning. The imperfections are perfectly aligned in chaos all around. Yesterday? I call his name. I search through the cities past, my imagination guiding me, my impurity singing in my chest. It sings its tuneless hymns, I hum along. Today? I hear my name called. A melody to match my tuneless hymn. There he stands, the cracks in his skin imperfectly perfect amid the impurities of the city. I hear his heart beat out of time, imperfectly perfect, it whispers my name. Today. Heaven is love. A love blinded to imperfections that lasts eternity. Yesterday is perfectly perfect to me. 

[greymatterwriting]

Things sound better in writing

[greymatterwriting]

Evolution

A student said to me today

‘did you know...

everyone thinks evolution is for the species

but its not

its for the individual

to prolong their genetic material

sometimes whats best for the individual

is not whats best for the species

but they do it anyway.’

And it got me thinking

I’ve always questioned how

can politicians choose profit

over people

how can companies choose money

over lives

I guess its for the individual

not the species.

[greymatterwriting]

Patch of Pink

There once was a girl

who leaked words too fast

to catch.

She bought a blank page

but soon the words ran off.

She tried to hold them in her phone

but in the shower

they fell .

They spewed from her mouth

and leaked from her eyes

and wasted down the drain.

She could not bare

to let them go

and so

she marked her skin.

Black ink on pink white flesh

her words stayed forever

but soon, her canvas cluttered.

The words with no rhyme or reason

still she leaked

still she penned

until not a patch of pink remained.

There once was a girl

with skin tattooed black

who leaked words

to fast

to catch.